


the garden of compassion

by wordsmithraven



Series: A Drink from the Mnemosyne [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Magnus Bane, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Parent-Child Relationship, Suicide, Violence, Young Magnus Bane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsmithraven/pseuds/wordsmithraven
Summary: Magnus remembers the last conversation he had with his mother just before she killed herself.





	the garden of compassion

**Author's Note:**

> Last of the memory vignettes. This one featuring Magnus and his mother. This is extremely non-canon as I wrote it before I saw the clip from ep 2.15. So...*shrug* I decided to post it anyway.
> 
> Also, I gave Magnus a Quranic childhood name because he easily could have been raised a Muslim considering Indonesia's culture and history. I also asked people on Tumblr if I should give him a Malay, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Dutch name and several people were interested in the idea of an Arabic name for him.
> 
> I did do some research but if I wrote something offensive or wildly inaccurate, let me know and I will fix it or just straight up remove it.

When his cat eyes had developed and his mother had first understood the weight of them, the hurt of them, he had not said what he should have. He could not find the words to express what he needed to in order to keep her, to make her love him again, to make her _want_ to love him again. _It’s still me, Mama. Your boy. I know it hurts, mama, but I’m still here. Your little boy; your little greatness, mama. Don’t leave me._ Magnus had said none of this, of course.

He had only recently understood himself why his mother thought his eyes were evil after weeks of confusing distance where once they had been inseparable, and then overhearing hushed arguments between his not-quite-father and his fading mother; whispered screams over things no nine year old should know. Truths about his origin, he wanted to staunchly ignore.

He had been his mother’s little angel. Her perfect boy. She had given him a blessed name. A Quranic name shared by her favorite poet whose poems her father used to read to her when she was little. It was a good name in his step-father’s estimation and he had no objections at the time. So he had been thus named “Jalal."

But when he was nine all those blessings she had wanted to bestow upon him seemed to dry up. The love they had shared so freely between them was now wringing her heart out. He hadn’t known what to say to make it better. The blessed child whom she was sure had been sent from the heavens above was now a cursed demonic reminder of a deep violation both physical and spiritual. Each day he was around her, he cut the wounds wider.

Centuries later and yet he still remembered the exact day he thought he had missed his final moment to turn everything around.

It was a dry morning that day, one of the driest they’d seen all year. It was so early it was still dark out, and flies had gravitated to some sweetness that had spilled on the front area of their small farm house. The buzz of their frenzy had been like a thunderous roar in his ears and he had swatted irritably at them. He had been sat on a small stool there when his mother walked up to the house with a washer basket perched in her arms. His bag was clutched in his lap, full to bursting with his books of poetry and essays and his prayer rug. He remembered that he had run away from _pondok pesantren_ to be there. He had loved school but he had also deeply missed home. Running away had been a frequent thing for him. He knew he’d be reprimanded but something had compelled him to come home that morning.

“Jalal, what are you doing here? Teacher Fayiz will not appreciate you leaving…again.”

He had shot to his feet. His bag had gone wildly swinging at his side in his haste.

The roll of his birth name had done nothing to mask the sharp tone of her rebuke nor did it cover the hoarse quality her voice had taken on. Her face had been haggard, dark circles bruising the space under her eyes. She had lost so much weight in the previous months that her clothes had all needed to be adjusted several times over to accommodate her frame. Rasha, daughter of Wahyu, had diminished.

His mother had been hailed as a great beauty in their community. Graceful of foot and gentle of hand, with a voice that sprinkled joy and a whit to keep any man on his toes for those who liked that in a woman. Wibowo did, as long as it was employed only in private. Her parents had named her to suit the soft kicks of her little legs. It was agreed upon by everyone that met her that the name she bore was perfectly chosen to fit her lively nature.

 _Did the name come to suit her or did she come to suit it?_ Magnus wondered absently. He remembered that she had been a great beauty right up until the end.

It was hard work trying to simultaneously look at someone and yet avert your eyes. He had been too young to master it then and by the time he had learned the technique, it was already too late.

“You’re been there barely three months, Jalal, and you’ve already caused nothing but trouble. You’re already starting over two years later than all the other boys. You can’t fall behind more.”

She hadn’t looked at him at all. Her gaze had been locked onto some distant horizon above his head. “We decided to put you in school in order to teach you discipline and self-control. Learn it.”

 _Not to send me away so you wouldn’t have to look at me anymore?_ He had blinked. He couldn’t say that.

“I was just going back, mama, but I-- I wanted,” his words had trailed off slowly, everything his heart wanted to say caught behind a clogged throat and a loss of breath.

Somehow his mother had looked even more tired when he fell silent.

“I have so much work to finish before I join your father in the fields. Whatever you need to say, say it now.”

Nothing.

“Get back to lessons now, Jalal. I will not have you doing this again.”

His mother had brushed by him, carefully avoiding touching him with even her clothes as she had disappeared into the house. It had been her habit of late. Touching him as little as possible and never looking at his face. He had missed the weight of her gaze so much. To be without it had left him feeling like he would drift away.

Before long he had heard a crash from inside and a low wail. His mother’s mood had been changing so often of late and Jalal had no idea what to do. One moment she was cold, then angry, then so sad. Tears had welled up and threatened to drip down his face. The flies hadn’t stopped their buzzing.

He had pulled his bag over his shoulder and was already several lengths away from his home to make the two hour trek back to the pondok pesantren when his mother’s voice called out to him.

“Jalal!”

He had whipped around in a flash and sprinted back to her.

“Take this. For- for later.” She had handed him a bundle of flat bread wrapped in soft cloth.

It was not unusual for his mother to hand him food, even despite the fear she had for him now. Somehow this moment felt so different. Her eyes were dark and weary. She had clearly been crying and Jalal had felt the sudden urge to say anything to make her feel better.

So he had tried.

“I love you, mama.”

She ignored him and continued to avoid his gaze.

“If you fin- When your lessons end, stay with Teacher Fayiz instead of coming home. Stop running away.”

“I love you,” he’d said again.

“I- This is important, Jalal, because I won’t be here.”

“I _love_ you.”

“Make sure you wait for your father at least. I-”

“I lov—”

“You promise me!”

He couldn’t look away from her face then even if he had tried. His eyes had scanned every bit of it in longing. Her lip had trembled then, something dangerously raw had wanted to be released. For one split second she had looked directly into his eyes for the first time in over six months. Her expression had been wild and her hands had gripped his tightly around the bundle she was giving him.

Then her face had contorted, first in agony and then in disgust, and her hands had yanked back from his and the moment was gone. She had whirled around and slammed the door shut before he could say anything else.

“I love you,” he had whispered one last time but it hadn’t been enough.

During his lessons with his teachers he thought maybe he had found the right words to say. He had planned right then to run away again. In his estimation he had not actually made the promise so it wasn’t quite breaking it to her but he needn’t have worried about the promise. There were worse things in store.

When his lessons broke for evening meal, he left the teaching room to find his step-father waiting. The older man’s face had been stone still and his mouth pressed in a hard line. He had said not one word before he grabbed Jalal by his arm and yanked him nearly the entire two hour walk home.

When they got there, the sun had just been setting. He had scrambled to keep up with his step-father’s dragging grip, feeling a shiver run through him the closer they got to their home. When they had turned to see Jalal’s tiny room, his step-father had thrown him on the ground across the way from the cloth curtain. Flies had buzzed in a black cloud around the doorway and Jalal had pulled the curtain back to see.

Blood had soaked nearly the entire ground of his little room. His sleeping pallet had been completely covered in a russet burgundy. There lay his mother on his pallet. Her family keris clutched tight in her hand, her neck gaping open in a crooked smile, and her eyes locked open on the arterial blood spray streaking across the ceiling of the little room. Next to her had been her open copy of Rumi splattered with red droplets. Centuries later, it was still one of the most brutal ways Magnus had ever seen someone choose to die.

His budding magic had arced over the room and Jalal had passed out before he could blink, leaving him with no memories of what happened after.

Less than a year later, his not-quite-father had tried to drown him but Jalal had burnt him to a crisp instead.

Some days Magnus could _still_ smell his step-father’s burning flesh. The scent was overwhelming.


End file.
